Love Me Little, Love Me Long | Page 7

hate anybody, Lucy,) 'but if you don't take me I shall die of a
broken fiddlestick,' you will whine out, 'Oh, dear! shall you? Well, then,
sooner than disoblige you, here--take me!'"
"Am I so weak as this?" asked Lucy, coloring, and the water coming
into her eyes.
"Don't be offended," said the other, coolly; "we won't call it weakness,
but excess of complaisance; you can't say no to anybody."
"Yet I have said it," replied Lucy, thoughtfully.
"Have you? When? Oh, to me. Yes; where I am concerned you have
sometimes a will of your own, and a pretty stout one; but never with
anybody else."
The aunt then inquired of the niece, "frankly, now, between ourselves,"
whether she had no wish to be married. The niece informed her in
confidence that she had not, and was puzzled to conceive how the bare
idea of marriage came to be so tempting to her sex. Of course, she
could understand a lady wishing to marry, if she loved a gentleman
who was determined to be unhappy without her; but that women should
look about for some hunter to catch instead of waiting quietly till the

hunter caught them, this puzzled her; and as for the superstitious love
of females for the marriage rite in cases when it took away their liberty
and gave them nothing amiable in return, it amazed her. "So, aunt," she
concluded, "if you really love me, driving me to the altar will be an
unfortunate way of showing it."
While listening to this tirade, which the young lady delivered with great
serenity, and concluded with a little yawn, Mrs. Bazalgette had two
thoughts. The first was: "This girl is not flesh and blood; she is made of
curds and whey, or something else;" the second was: "No, she is a
shade hypocriticaler than other girls--before they are married, that is
all;" and, acting on this latter conviction, she smiled a lofty incredulity,
and fell to counting on her fingers all the moneyed bachelors for miles.
At this Lucy winced with sensitive modesty, and for once a shade of
vexation showed itself on her lovely features. The quick-sighted,
keen-witted matron caught it, and instantly made a masterly move of
feigned retreat. "No," cried she, "I will not tease you anymore, love;
just promise me not to receive any gentleman's addresses at Font
Abbey, and I will never drive you from my arms to the altar."
"I promise that," cried Lucy, eagerly.
"Upon your honor?"
"Upon my honor."
"Kiss me, dear. I know you won't deceive me now you have pledged
your honor. This solemn promise consoles me more than you can
conceive."
"I am so glad; but if you knew how little it costs me."
"All the better; you will be more likely to keep it," was the dry reply.
The conversation then took a more tender turn. "And so to-morrow you
go! How dull the house will be without you! and who is to keep my
brats in order now I have no idea. Well, there is nothing but meeting
and parting in this world; it does not do to love people, does it? (ah!)
Don't cry, love, or I shall give way; my desolate heart already brims
over--no--now don't cry" (a little sharply); "the servants will be coming
in to take away the things."
"Will you c--c--come and h--help me pack, dear?"
"Me, love? oh no! I could not bear the sight of your things put out to go
away. I promised to call on Mrs. Hunt this afternoon; and you must not
stop in all day yourself--I cannot let your health be sacrificed; you had

better take a brisk walk, and pack afterward."
"Thank you, aunt. I will go and finish my drawing of Harrowden
Church to take with me."
"No, don't go there; the meadows are wet. Walk upon the Hatton road;
it is all gravel."
"Yes; only it is so ugly, and I have nothing to do that way."
"But I'll give you something to do," said Mrs. Bazalgette, obligingly.
"You know where old Sarah and her daughter live--the last cottages on
that road; I don't like the shape of the last two collars they made me;
you can take them back, if you like, and lend them one of yours I
admire so for a pattern."
"That I will, with pleasure."
"Shall you come back through the garden? If you don't--never mind;
but, if you do, you may choose me a bouquet. The servants are
incapable of a bouquet."
"I will; thank you, dear. How kind and thoughtful of you to give me
something to occupy me now that I am a little sad." Mrs. Bazalgette
accepted this tribute with a benignant smile, and the ladies parted.
The next morning a traveling-carriage, with